Picture Perfect
by Someday Sara
Summary: When Marianne's father is murdered, she turns to Sherlock Holmes to help her. But when Marianne is in danger herself, will Watson be willing to save the day? FINISHED!!!!!!!!!!
1. Chapter One

I eased the door open, and Marianne looked up from a book. Holmes and I staggered into the living room, pale and out of breath. But Holmes' hands were pressed against his stomach and he collapsed to the floor.  
  
"Watson," he gasped, after a minute, "Do you think you can help me with this?" He pulled back his hands, slowly, and both Marianne and I could see they were sticky with blood.  
  
I gasped and practically flew to his side. "Marianne!" I said sharply, "Call 911!"  
  
"What?" Marianne was wringing her hands and white as a ghost.  
  
I kicked myself inwardly. Stupid American. "The ambulance - call an ambulance!" I said, helping Holmes unbutton his shirt. I stripped it off of him, laid him on his back, and pressed the white cotton against his wound. From the broken glass, I noted, my hands shaking.  
  
"Holmes, it's going to be okay, you just pull through this, you hear me?" The shirt was slowly filling with his blood. I increased the pressure, crying desperately. "You can't leave me, I won't let you!"  
  
Holmes opened his eyes, moaning. "Watson - find... find the..."  
  
"Find the what?"  
  
"Foe.... a foe's... toe..." Holmes whispered. Then he groaned again, and he was gone.  
  
"Holmes!" I screamed, crying. "No!" I thought I heard sirens in the background. "Holmes!"  
  
Hands snatched at me. "It's all right miss, it's all right." I was pulled away from him, sobbing. As they took Holmes away, I had the presence of mind to scream for Marianne to call his parents, and mine. Then I was a mess, a quivering mess on the bloody carpet, and all I could think of was that night, that horrible night when this all began...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
March 30, 2002  
  
  
"Sherlock!" someone was screaming. "Sherlock Holmes, you've got to help me!"  
  
Holmes started and then opened the door. He was practically bowled over by a sobbing Marianne. "Sherlock!" she screamed, clutching at his arms, "Help me, help me, please! My father... my father!" With a groan, she fell against him, unconscious.  
  
Holmes and I exchanged one astonished glance before we dragged her to the couch. Here I was thinking that it would be a nice, quiet night. I had been enlisted to help baby-sit Colleen, Holmes' little sister, and I was looking forward to a peaceful evening. But that was all shattered, now.  
  
We laid Marianne on the couch and I began stuffing pillows underneath her feet. "It gets the blood flowing back to the brain," I said, in answer to Holmes' questioning look. "Listen, I know it's taboo, but do your parents have any brandy?"  
  
Holmes nodded and ran to get some, while I took Marianne's pulse. She was alive, but very, very frightened. Holmes came back with the brandy and I uncorked it. Lifting her head I poured some of the amber liquid down her throat. Marianne sputtered, coughed, and then opened her eyes - eyes that were red and swollen from crying.  
  
She glanced at me, then settled on Holmes. "Sherlock!" she moaned. "Sherlock, my father's been... been..." She started crying again. Holmes helped her sit up, and I put the cork back in the brandy.   
  
"Calm down, Mari, calm down," Holmes said soothingly, patting her arm. "What's wrong?"  
  
"My father is dead!" Marianne screamed. "He's dead, he's dead, on the floor in the parlor dead! He was murdered!" She sobbed into her hands. "Daddy..."  
  
Holmes and I stared at each other, astonished. Then the door opened, and the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes floated in. "Mari," Holmes said quickly. "You have to hide for a moment, okay?" With that, he picked her up and stood her behind one of the long curtains. Holmes and I sat back down on the couch and tried to look nonchalant. I realized I was still holding the brandy bottle, and I stuffed it in the cushions just in time.  
  
"Well," Mrs. Holmes said, looking very pretty in her sparkling evening gown. "How was Colleen?"  
  
"A little angel," I said, conveniently forgetting the spilled egg nogg (bleach! left over from Christmas!), the burned TV dinners and the monumental no-I-will-not-take-a-bath temper tantrum.  
  
Mrs. Holmes laughed softly and handed me a little money. I stammered that she didn't have to do that... and then the curtain hiccuped. Mrs. Holmes looked around confused, but Holmes put a hand over his mouth. "Oh, excuse me," he said. Mrs. Holmes looked wary, and I pushed at the brandy bottle, trying to get it as far in the cushions as possible. This would not look good if she found it.  
  
Holmes coughed and hit his chest with his fist. "Well, I guess I'll walk Watson home, Mother."  
  
"Don't be stupid," I said, "It's only four hou....remph. Ahem." I had stopped at Holmes' raised eyebrows. I made myself shiver. "But it is awfully dark out, I would appreciate it."   
  
"Goodnight, then, dear," Mrs. Holmes said, and left the room. I got my coat and yanked it on, then hustled out the door with Holmes and Marianne (whom Holmes had pulled from behind the curtain).  
  
When we were about half way down the street we stopped. "Now Marianne," Holmes said, taking her by both shoulders and looking her at the eye. "I want you to stay here for a moment. Watson and I are both going back to our houses and then coming out. We'll meet you here in half and hour." Holmes shrugged out of his coat and put it around her shoulders. I felt a twang of jealousy (Holmes had never given ME his coat!) but that passed quickly. I wasn't the one with a dead Dad. In more ways than one, I guess, Marianne needed that coat.  
  
But STILL!  
  
I shook my head as Holmes turned to me. "Out the window?" I asked.  
  
Holmes took a deep breath. "Out the window."  
  
"I hate that. The last time I got stuck on the drainpipe."  
  
Holmes laughed. "I know, I know. Meet you all back here in half and hour."  
  
Holmes and I turned and walked away. I felt kinda bad leaving Marianne there, but she would be okay.  
  
  
  
  
  
Wouldn't she?  
  
  
  
  
I slipped in the house, knocked on my parents' bedroom door and told them I was home and goodnight. They muttered a sleepy response and I went to my bedroom.  
  
Changing out of my icky private school clothes I pulled on some dark blue jeans and a black sweater. I yanked my coarse almost-blond hair into a ponytail and squinted to make sure my contact lenses were in place. Then I grabbed my notepad, flashlight (torch, what a dumb thing to call it it's a flashlight!) and walkie-talkie and pulled the window open.  
  
My parents, being parents, learned very quickly what our front door sounded like and they had very unfortunately come to check on it during one of my midnight cases with Holmes. I had managed not to get caught by my parents, but they called the police. To this day they talk about the burglar who knew enough about our house to jump out the kitchen window, knowing "he" would land in the bushes.  
  
And then next time, when I decided to try and get out through the window, I got stuck on the drainpipe, literally by the seat of my pants, and had to be rescued by Holmes. Not very dignifying.  
  
But I was determined to be more careful this time. I eased backwards out of the window, putting a foot on the ledge. I shut the window and clung to the drainpipe, then shimmied down.  
  
I hurried along the street and was there by Marianne before Holmes. Marianne was sobbing softly, and I must say it broke my heart. I put one arm around her and she didn't even flinch.  
  
  
Holmes showed up a few minutes later. "Now, Mari," he said kindly, but sternly. "You've been through a lot but we're going to have to ask you to be very brave tonight. When we get to your house, we'll need a distraction. Do you think you can go up to your room and scream, perhaps, so that even the police come running?"  
  
Marianne hiccuped and nodded, pulling Holmes' coat tighter around her. Holmes knew the way to her house and as he led us down the foggy London streets, I shivered.  
  
Something in the air that night told me we were walking into danger, death, deception, and an OW!  
  
  
Lamppost.  
  
  
I rubbed my head and hurried to catch up with Holmes. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's note: I didn't want to put an author's note at the beginning of this story because I wanted it to be dramatic, so I stuck one here, hope you don't mind. "Picture Perfect" is the fourth (gads, the fourth!) in my Sara Watson, Sherlock Holmes series. The other three, in order, are "The Seven Princesses," "Hypnosis," and "Five Flutes and a Black Rose." You might want to check them out, otherwise, Sara Watson is a teenager who moved to England from America and meets a teenage Sherlock Holmes, all in present-day.   
  
And please forgive any lapses in my writing, here. You know what's really strange? In "Five Flutes" I gave Sara Watson and b-day, and then she gets sick. And the day after my b-day, I got sick! Freaky... Anyway, the point is I'm all drugged up on Sudafed, please forgive grammatical errors and such...  
  
One last thing, I stole some of this from "Holmes for the Holidays", so if you've read that, please don't give away the ending!  
  
And now, to the story -   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Whoah!" I said, stopping suddenly. "Marianne lives HERE?"  
  
The building, no, the castle in front of me was surrounded by a huge, black, wrought iron fence. The house was white and at least four stories tall. The windows were huge and shiny, and they illuminated the whole yard, which was filled with pretty flowers and expensive Japanese willow trees. It would have looked like something out of a magazine, except for the three or four police cars in the driveway.   
  
Marianne hiccuped again. "We need to go around back," she said quietly. "I'll sneak up to my room and scream, you can come in after me."  
  
We followed Marianne up to her house, creeping underneath the huge windows. She led us to a huge back door and she slipped inside. "F-five minutes," she gulped, and handed Holmes his jacket before she turned and walked away.   
  
Holmes and I peered through the open doorway cautiously. The door opened into a huge kitchen, - the kind with two stoves, a refrigerator that could hold an entire Burger King, and a marble island big enough to sit twelve.  
  
"Marianne's got some serious money!" I whispered, awed.  
  
Holmes nodded, frowning.  
  
Just then, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the night. I jumped about a foot in the air and turned white. Holmes put his hand on my arm and I took a deep breath. The murmur of voices died sharply, and the sound of feet pounding on stairs told us it was our chance.  
  
"Boy, Marianne can scream, too." I muttered, earning a disapproving glare from Holmes. We tiptoed inside and Holmes led the way to the parlor. With a shock I realized he had been here before.  
  
The parlor was beautiful - it had a deep, dark, parquet floor partially covered in an Oriental rug. The walls were dark green, with matching curtains and expensive looking paintings. There was a writing desk, a fireplace, and several squashy-looking armchairs. On the wall furthest from us was a huge chart that, on closer inspection, proved to be a family tree.  
  
I didn't notice most of this right away, because my attention was immediately drawn to the dead body on the floor.  
  
He was a middle-aged man, about the age of my father, I realized. He was dressed in pajamas and a robe (dressing gown, I think they call it). He was lying face down in the carpet, at the far end of the room. His right arm was stretched out in front of him and clenched tight.  
  
Shivering, I knelt before Mr. Cuttinghall and examined him. Bleaaaaugh! I choked back bile as I touched his cold, stiff neck. I turned to Holmes.  
  
"He was shot," I whispered. "Point-blank range. The bullet entered between the third and fourth ribs - it definitely went into the heart. He's been dead," I looked at my watch. It was one in the morning. "Maybe two? three hours?"  
  
Holmes nodded briskly and examined the room. "He was shot over here," Holmes said, "Look, you can see the blood where he staggered across the room."  
  
"He kept walking," I said, incredulous, "AFTER he was shot?"  
  
"Yes, yes, look at the blood, Watson! But why?" Holmes walked back to me and looked the body. "Why is his right hand closed like that?"  
  
"Death agony?" I suggested, shrugging.   
  
"But why only one hand in death agony?" Holmes knelt swiftly and pried the stiff fingers open. They cracked and I put a hand over my mouth, queasy. Holmes pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, torn off from the family tree in the corner. It had just the "leaves" of the tree from the top right corner - no names. Holmes quickly matched it up against the wall, and noted the blood on the chart.   
  
"Well," he whispered. "This gets uglier. Watson, look in the ashtray. Two cigarettes and a cigar. He was wearing a bathrobe. He was talking with someone he knew. And then after he was shot..."  
  
"He grabbed at the family tree!" I gasped. "Holmes, someone in his own family killed him!" I glanced back at the body. "What's this?" I muttered, and pulled a pen from my pocket. Slipping the pen underneath, I lifted a jeweled hairpin from beside the body.  
  
Voices and the sound of footsteps drifted down to us "Stupid girl - 'I had a nightmare!'" Someone was saying. "Honestly, Inspector, how do you expect to..."  
  
Holmes grabbed my arm and I stuffed the hairpin in my pocket. He dragged me out of the parlor, towards the voices!  
  
"Holmes!" I whispered furiously but he didn't answer. I found myself at the bottom of a huge set of stairs. Just in time, Holmes and I ducked under the back of the stairs, into the shadows. Once again, I realized Holmes had been here before.   
  
Several detectives and a maid came down the stairs, muttering to themselves. When they had gone back into the parlor, we crawled from behind the stairs. Holmes motioned for me to follow, and we tiptoed up the mountain of marble steps.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Holmes turned right and led me down a huge hallway, thickly carpeted. He stopped in front of an enormous white door and knocked, timidly. "Marianne," he called softly. "It's Holmes and Watson. Let us in."  
  
The door creaked open, and Marianne stood aside to let us in. Her eyes were wider and redder than ever before, and she sat on her huge, poofy bed and cried.  
  
I felt terrible, but I scanned the room with interest. Everything was sickeningly white or pastel pink, and fluffy! Her bed was like a princess', with white drapes hanging down the side and pink satin sheets. There was a big screen TV surrounded by beanbags at one end, and a desk with a bookshelf at the other. There was another door off to the side, and through it I could see an en-suite bathroom. I resisted the urge to whistle appreciatively.  
  
Holmes strolled around the room, and stopped at her desk. I noticed as he swept some papers off it and put them quietly in his pocket. "Now, Marianne," he said, turning around. "Tell us exactly what happened."  
  
"It was about ten o'clock. I heard a car pull up and the front door open. My dad said something, then everything was quiet for a long time. I could smell daddy's cigars so everything was okay. Then there was, a... a... gunshot and I..." Marianne sobbed again. "I started screaming and someone pounded on my door, and then everything was quiet until my mother ran downstairs and started screaming and I called the police and... and...!"  
  
"It's okay, Mari, it's okay. You say someone pounded on your door?"  
  
"Yes," Marianne reached out for a tissue and blew her nose. "Somebody rattled the door handle of my room right after the gunshot. It sounded like they were trying to come in and I screamed and then they hit the door. Then I hear my mother's door open and everything was quiet until SHE started to scream and -"  
  
"Someone rattled your door right after the gunshot?" Holmes said, quickly.  
  
"Almost immediately after."  
  
"You could swear to it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I looked at Marianne. "But you always keep your door locked?"  
  
"Yes," Marianne hiccuped. "Because my brother likes to play tricks on me so I keep it locked."  
  
"Very good," Holmes said, taking one of the papers from his pocket. "Marianne, what's this?"  
  
Marianne looked at the papers and sniffled a bit before answering. "My uncle Carl asked me to do that a while ago. My dad has - HAD, HAD..." Marianne started to cry again and it was a while before she composed herself. "My daddy... had... terrible handwriting. Uncle Carl made a bet with Uncle Arty that I could forge his hand. Uncle Carl gave me five pounds to copy that."  
  
"You're good at forging?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Extremely good," Marianne said, blowing her nose again. "I used to get in all kinds of trouble for it," she added.  
  
"Thank you, Mari, that's all," Holmes said. "Now, the best thing for you to do is try to get some rest. You're quite safe here tonight, but we'll come see you in the morning." Holmes walked over to her bed and gave her a kiss on her tearstained cheek.   
  
I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT... too late. I shook the feeling away as quickly as I could.  
  
"Come, Watson," Holmes said quietly and we slipped from the bedroom. We heard the door lock behind us and Holmes muttered "Good girl, Mari." Without making a sound, Holmes and I slipped out of the house, ducking in an empty room once to avoid the maid.   
  
As we crawled beneath the windows and then walked along the fence at the far side of the house, Holmes began to talk. "When you put together the two cigarettes in the ash tray and the fact that somebody rattled Marianne's door almost immediately after the gunshot, I'd say we're dealing with two people. Two people in the family."  
  
"But not Mrs. Cuttinghall, she was in her bedroom, Marianne heard her. And not Marianne, obviously, I've never seen anyone so upset. And how old's her brother?"  
  
"Five."  
  
"Well, there you go. Not someone in the immediate family, then."  
  
"No," Holmes agreed. "But somebody on that family tree."  
  
We considered this in silence.  
  
"Holmes, what did it say on those papers?" I asked as we opened the front gate of the fence.  
  
Holmes cleared his throat. "It is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them. Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year."  
  
"Say what?" I said as we scuffled down the sidewalk.  
  
Holmes shrugged. "That's what it says. Doesn't it sound like a ... my god, WATSON!"  
  
Something hit me from behind and I toppled to the pavement. Strong hands gripped my shoulders and flipped me on my back. A bright light in my eyes and then -   
  
"Get off of her! Hey, you, come back!" Holmes was darting off, chasing someone dressed in black. After about half a block, he dug in his heels and ran back to me.  
  
"Watson, my god! Are you all right?" He put his arms under mine and hauled me to my feet.   
  
I rubbed my head. "I think so," I said, bewildered. "What HAPPENED?"  
  
"That..." Holmes glanced down the street. "That monster leapt up from behind, tackled you, shone a torch in your face and then was off like the wind."  
  
"That is so bizarre!" I said, still rubbing my head. "But it sounds like..."  
  
"...He was expecting someone else, I know," Holmes said, with a glance back at the Cuttinghalls. "Come, Watson, let's go home." 


	3. Chapter Three

Author's note: Because of Meryl Lynn's comments I just had to go look up what a Mary Sue was.   
A Mary Sue:  
1. unbelievably beautiful (Like Watson, except for the nose)  
2. extraordinarily talented (Like Watson, on the flute)  
3. continually saves the day (Like Watson... uh, oh...)  
4. Is the child or lover of the author's favorite (Like Watson, double uh, oh...)  
5. Is named after the author (Like Watson...)  
  
About this point I slumped over my keyboard, totally depressed. Watson, queen of the Mary Sues.   
  
So I, too, have fallen into this category of mindless, pointless fan fiction. And I have something to say about it: What's wrong with a Mary Sue? I'm just having fun, writing my own little fantasies. Yeah, theses stories are cheap, soupped up and copy-catted. But so what? I'm enjoying writing them, I enjoy reading them, and I'll going to continue to do so.  
  
And in the end, that's all that matters.  
  
And now, back to my own personal Mary Sue:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I dragged my feet down the corridor, absolutely exhausted, and it was only lunch. I slumped over to the lunch line and paid for a tray, only half-awake.  
  
That's why when I turned around and saw Holmes holding Marianne's hand, I closed my eyes, took and deep breath, and counted to five.   
  
But when I opened my eyes again, they were still holding hands. I watched in disbelief as Holmes whispered something softly to her.   
  
And then, and you'll never believe this, HE KISSED HER! On the cheek! IN PUBLIC!   
  
With a crash, I dumped my grilled cheese sandwich all over the floor. Holmes glanced up at me and I knelt and began to pick up the spilled food. Angrier than I've ever been and trying to choke back tears, I peeled the rubbery cheese from the floor. It was ruined, but so was my appetite. I slammed the whole messy tray into the garbage can, and stormed to an empty table.   
  
I pulled my latest Agatha Christie novel from my backpack and pretended to read, not noticing that I was holding the book upside down.  
  
Holmes sat down across from me. "Watson," he began, hurriedly.  
  
"Don't you 'Watson' me," I said, dangerously low. "You - you - " While I searched for a cuss word Holmes interrupted.  
  
"Watson, I'm simply trying to stay in her good graces for this inves-"  
  
"HER GOOD GRACES? YOU KISSED HER!"  
  
Now the people around us looked up and stared. Holmes blushed furiously. "She's been through a lot and I was only trying to get information..." He trailed off. "I was just being sympathetic."  
  
"You're a player!" I said. "A lousy, dirty player!" I practically yelled in his face. Now the entire cafeteria was watching. "I can't believe you," I said, very, very softly. I hefted my backpack on to one shoulder and got up from the table.  
  
As I walked from the cafeteria, biting my lip to keep back tears, I saw Marianne watching me. I expected her to smirk or give me a V for Victory or something but instead she looked... weird... almost angry.  
  
Brushing a hand against my eyes, I turned down the hallway. I would go to the library and hide in the fiction section.  
  
"WATSON!" Holmes had followed me. His hands were tight into fists and he was speaking through clenched teeth. "You did that on purpose - you publicly disgraced me because you were jealous!"  
  
"Jealous?" I scoffed, as I turned to face him. "I wasn't jealous - I had my heart ripped out and stuffed down my throat in front of the entire school!"  
  
"Your heart?" Holmes laughed, a sound that chilled me. "I have your heart?"  
  
I felt my face turn bright red, and I wished I hadn't said anything. I turned and began to walk away - Holmes stayed where he was.  
  
I kept my head down as I entered the library, and made my way to the back shelves. Dropping my pack and sliding to the floor, I covered my face with my hands.  
  
"Sara?" I looked up. It was Brad. Cute Brad, with that pretty blond hair and deep blue eyes. "Mind if I sit?" he asked.   
  
I shook my head, and he sank to the ground. "I'm really sorry," he said, and I looked away.  
  
"Listen," he said, after a minute. "Maybe sometime we co..." The bell rang, and I didn't hear what he said last. I stood, flustered.   
  
"Um, yeah, okay," I muttered and ran from the library. I headed for my science classroom, hiccuping just like Marianne.  
  
And speak of the devil - I felt my backpack caught from behind and I whirled around to face her.  
  
"You!" Marianne said, shaking. "How dare you say such things to Sherlock? Do you know what he said to me? Do you?"  
  
I stared. "No..."   
  
"I asked him out and he said no. No because of you, Watson." She accented my name with scorn.  
  
I gulped, and Marianne turned on her heel with a tsk! of disgust. I felt my stomach sink to my toes. No wonder Holmes had been so angry.  
  
I slouched in to chemistry and didn't look at Holmes as I sat next to him. We didn't speak to each other the entire class, or for the rest of that day.  
  
But before he could get on the bus, I grabbed his arm. "Holmes, I'm really sorry - I - I didn't mean to embarrass you like that."  
  
Holmes looked down the bridge of his nose at me. "Apology accepted," he said, a little coldly. I looked up at my friend. He had grown several inches, I noted, irritated, and his face had become so serious...  
  
"So do you want my help or not?" I mumbled.  
  
"Watson, you are essential."  
  
"Thanks... I think. Why am I essential?"   
  
Holmes boarded the bus. "I'll tell you later."  
  
"Aren't you walking home with me?" I asked, hesitant to get on the bus and break our tradition.   
  
"I'd rather ride today. Be at my house at seven thirty. Wear your uniform, I've got a plan." With that, the bus doors wheezed shut right in front of me. Fuming, I turned and walked away.   
  
Who does that Sherlock Holmes think he is, anyway? 


	4. Chapter Four

"Where are you going?" My mother's voice followed me from the kitchen.  
  
"Holmes" I said simply, shutting the door behind me. I pulled my Hopkin's jacket tighter around me and jogged a bit to keep warm - the foggy night was chilly.  
  
When I knocked on Holmes' door I heard the scurrying of little puppy feet and then a frantic scratching. The door was opened and Rascal, now twice the size we found him, greeted me with a big slobbery kiss and several happy barks.  
  
Holmes and Marianne stood in the doorway, bundled up like I was.  
  
"Let's go," Holmes said, shoving Rascal back in the house.  
  
"Where are we going?" I asked, wiping puppy spit off the back of my hand.  
  
"To meet Raffi."  
  
"Raffi? Not like, baby beluga Raffi?" I asked.  
  
Marianne gave me a strange look.  
  
"You know! Baaaaby beluuuuga... swimming in the deep blue sea...?" I started to sing, slightly off key.  
  
Now both of them were staring. I sighed, exasperated.  
  
"No, I believe you are mistaken, Watson." Holmes drawled and Marianne snickered. I beat down the urge to hit one of them.   
  
After about half an hour of brisk walking (I *gasp* want *gasp* a car!) Holmes knocked on the door of a basement flat.   
  
It was opened by - dear god.  
  
He was wearing bell-bottoms with bright blue sequins and a white shirt that was slit almost to his belly button, showing off an enormous gold goat-fish-thing on a chain. His mousy brown hair was in short spikes, and several dangling earrings flashed in the lamplight.   
  
"Holmes, baby!" The man whipped off his pink sunglasses. "Let me be the first to say how simply delicious it is to see you! And with such babalicious ladies as yourselves!" He pointed at Marianne and I and stuck his tongue out in a wild grin.  
  
Marianne and I began backing away, but Holmes caught our wrists. "Watson, Marianne," he said, laughing. "Allow me to introduce Raffi."  
  
With an obnoxious grin Raffi winked at me. I felt my stomach turn over.  
  
  
"But Holmes, baby, come on in! Bring the laaaa-daaayss..." Raffi turned and we followed him, rather reluctantly, into the apartment.  
  
It was like one of those pictures where you have to find the 1000 things wrong with it - like the rubber duck taped to the disco ball and the toilet paper around the sofa and the tiki mask on the table.   
  
Only here it was all real.  
  
The walls were alternately tangerine and turquoise, with purple stars that flashed randomly. There was a bunk with the covers undone and a small kitchenette that was painted neon green. One whole wall was a mirror and a makeup table that was covered in every kind of wig, paint, rubber, and tubes of stuff I didn't even recognize. To top it all, weird hippie music without any lyrics was blaring from a speaker next to the bed.  
  
Raffi swaggered over to a chair and jumped into it, making it spin around slowly.  
  
"So, babes, what can I do for you?" he asked, putting his pink sunglasses back on.  
  
Holmes put his hands in his pocket. "I need your help for an investigation."  
  
"Any thing for you, Holmmy-olmmy." Raffi spun around to face Marianne and I. "He did a good thing for me, your friend. Cleared me of murder, no less."  
  
Holmes laughed. "Yes, I, um, helped the police prove that Raffi was busy robbing a music store at the time."  
  
Raffi grinned. "I got to keep the cd's, didn't I?"  
  
"Yes, you did. But I need you to do a number on Watson."  
  
I stared at Holmes. "WHAT?"  
  
Waving an exasperated hand in my face, Holmes sighed. "I need you to make her look like Marianne."  
  
Raffi frowned and pushed his glasses to the top of his head. He put his feet on the floor and rested his arms on his knees as he studied us.  
  
After a minute he spoke. "Do-able. Definitely do-able." He got up from his chair. "Watson, is it? Put your cute little batootie right here."  
  
"Holmes!" I yelped, edging for the door. He frowned and turned to me.   
  
"Don't worry, Raffi is harmless." Holmes said, then looked back. Raffi was singing and swinging his hips as he picked up tubes of makeup. "Well, sort of."  
  
"Why do you need me to look like Marianne?" I hissed.  
  
"Bait."  
  
"Bai...? Oh, no way! NO WAY! Make her do it!" I pointed at Marianne, who looked uncomfortable.  
  
Holmes grabbed my upper arm and steered me a few feet away. "Marianne is helpless. I know she's the captain of the fencing team, but take away her foil and she's useless. I need someone who can really protect themselves if things get ugly. I have reason to believe that someone is trying to kidnap Marianne. They'll come after you, and once they realize you're not Marianne, they'll dump you. Then we know who were up against."  
  
"Holmes," I said. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of! Do you realize how risky that is?"  
  
Our eyes met, and he was quiet. "It could mean her life," he whispered.  
  
I groaned. "Fine, fine, fine, fine, FINE!" I stormed over to Raffi's chair and sat. "Now what?"  
  
Raffi pointed at Marianne. "Come over here, you sit in this other chair where I can see you." He looked between Marianne and I and put a finger on his chin. "But what are we going to do about this hair?"  
  
"Watson highlights hers." Holmes said simply, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed.  
  
"So the underside is darker!" Raffi stood behind me and pulled my hair back into a neat ponytail. "It's still a little light, do we want to dye it?"  
  
"NO!" I said, very forcibly.  
  
"No," Holmes said. "She doesn't have to be identical. It's close enough."  
  
"Aw, okay," Raffi said, sounding disappointed. He came back to stand in front of me. "Let the magic begin," he said, whipping two tubes from behind his back.   
  
I whimpered.  
  
Raffi sang as he worked, smearing tan cream on my face and adding blush. "And if she leaves me, oo, handle her with care..." he was singing. He had a rather good voice, actually. "Don't hurt a-little Crystal..."  
  
Half and hour later Raffi stood back and laughed. "Well-ell-ell. Allow me to present Miss Marianne the second!"  
  
He stepped aside so I could see my reflection.   
  
I gasped.  
  
It wasn't as if I really was Marianne, but as close as you could get! My nose looked smaller, my eyelashes thicker and longer, and my lips had Marianne's smaller, pinched look. My cheekbones were higher and even my chin looked less round. It was amazing.  
  
Underneath it all I could tell I was me, but it was as if he had lifted Marianne's face and put it on mine.   
  
I caught Marianne's eye and we gaped, open mouthed at each other.  
  
CKC-WHIIIIIIZ... Raffi smiled and took the photograph out of the front of his Polaroid. He waved it in the air and chuckled.  
  
"You didn't." I said, cold. It was annoyingly hard to talk under all the makeup.  
  
"Oh yes I did." Raffi looked pleased with himself. "You two are picture perfect."  
  
Holmes stood. "Thank you, Raffi, you are amazing."  
  
"Anytime, baby, anytime." Raffi stuck the developing polaroid in the mirror frame. "Hm... I did do a good job, didn't I?" He started to sing again. "And if she calls you long distance, just be there, oooh, Crystal..."  
  
As we walked out of the flat I turned to Holmes. "Why does that song sound so familiar?"   
  
Holmes shrugged, but smiled deviously. I got the idea he wasn't telling me something...  
  
It was now about nine o'clock, and the streets were dark and cold. I shivered as we set out towards Holmes' house.   
  
When we got there he set Marianne up in the living room with a soda. "Make yourself at home - you're staying here for a while. You can read, if you want," Holmes waved a hand at the bookshelf.  
  
"Where are your parents?" I asked.   
  
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Myron is being promoted to inspector, or some such nonsense. There's a big banquet tonight. They even took Colleen."  
  
"That's lucky." I said. "But how'd you get out of it?"  
  
"I faked illness." Holmes said, with a hint of a smirk.  
  
"Oh, you sly dog!" I teased. Marianne giggled.  
  
Holmes grinned and looked at his watch. "We'd better be going."  
  
"Can we take Rascal?" I asked, nervous.  
  
"Good idea." Holmes said, and I whistled. Rascal came gallumphing down the stairs, slid on the rug, and crashed into the wall. He stood, shook his head and then jumped up to give Holmes a kiss.  
  
"Down! Down, Rascal!" Holmes said, pushing the over enthusiastic puppy away. I got the leash and snapped it on Rascal.  
  
Taking the lead from my hands, Holmes opened the door.  
  
"Here goes nothing," I said.  
  
"Here goes everything," Holmes whispered. 


	5. Chapter Five

IT'S THE RETURN OF SOMEDAY SARA! BUM-BUM-BUM-BAAAAAAAAA!  
  
Sorry chaps and chums, I know I've been a very bad girl so I'm going to finish this story quickly, and I've got another two in my mind... heee heee heee... please don't kill me, anyone. Please? Don't hurt the dumb american.  
  
Hi Allie. (I'll never tell.)  
  
  
  
And now, part, er, something of Picture Perfect!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts, deedly-dee, there they are a-standing in a row," I sang, under my breath. It was nine o'clock at night and I was cold, tired, and hungry. "Big ones, small ones, some as big as your-"  
  
"WATSON!" Holmes said in a furious whisper.  
  
"Sorry." I said, almost inaudibly.  
  
There was a moment of silence as Holmes and I continued our walk. After a minute I snuck a glance at Holmes, and whispered "I know a song that get's on everybody's ner-"  
  
Here is the part when Holmes is supposed to throw his arms around me and kiss me for my terrible wit and ability to lighten the situation.   
  
"WATSON! I am trying to think, and in case you haven't noticed, both of our lives are in danger right now. If I can't trust to you to hold your tongue then you are no better than the others and I might as well work alone."  
  
I just about bit my tongue in half trying not to cry. It was dark, I shivered, and then from an alleyway just behind us a dark green sports car pulled out and began trailing us. I felt my heart pound in my mouth, and Holmes and I glanced at each other.  
  
"Run?" I mouthed.  
  
Holmes shook his head, and we kept walking, my knees shaking. The car stopped, a door slammed, and footsteps echoed off the pavement.  
  
I felt like I was going to throw up. You'll make a beautiful princess... SHUT UP, ME! Oh, Jesus Christ... the four people behind us began to run.  
  
Unspoken, Holmes and I took off, Rascal bounding at our heels and howling. Good dog.  
  
Whoever it was behind us was catching up. I risked a glance behind, my god, there were wearing ski masks! It was so cheesy it would have been funny if I hadn't been about to wet myself.   
  
I stumbled in my dress shoes, (why do I always were dress shoes when I need to run?) and I turned to fight.  
  
With what?  
  
I aimed a kick and it went wild and missed, and someone grabbed me from behind. Holmes was knocked about the head and crumpled to the pavement. I screamed, then a hand was over my mouth, princess, and then I was shoved into a car, and a squeal of tires, and I banged my head against the seat and someone tied a cloth over my eyes.   
  
It took me about half an hour to find my voice.  
  
"Eck-" I said, then whimpered. "Excuse me, but, I don't think you know who I am."  
  
"Oh we do."  
  
"No, you don't understand, I'm - " I stopped, as I felt the cool barrel of a gun at the back of my neck. I'm dead.  
  
  
  
  
Watson has now, rather rudely, shoved her laptop at me, telling me to write my side of the story. Which just goes to show that I am not dead, as so many readers think. I would think that my young lady friend would have more respect for the recovering invalid, but she is giving me that look that has scared friends and fencing teachers alike. Watson is now telling me to leave fencing teachers out of this, that is the next story and she also says that I have been recovering for the last six months and that if I could beat her 5-0 nine consecutive times I am not an invalid.  
  
Rascal was licking my face when I came around, and I groaned and shoved him away, wiping loose gravel from my cheek. Then I started, when everything that had just happened came rushing back.   
  
I jumped to my feet and saw the tire skids, heading north. Someone had dropped a cigarette, the same as the ones that had been in the ashtray at the Cuttinghall home. Rascal was whimpering and when I glanced down at him, he wagged his tail with sad teardrop eyes.  
  
Puppy eyes, puppy eyes, sorry Watson. Stop reading over my shoulder.  
  
Rascal, in the fight, had torn a square of cloth from one of our attackers. It was a piece of feminine clothing, low thread count. There was only one person who could tell me where they lived from this scrap of cloth. Raffi.  
  
"Let's get her back," I said to Rascal, who howled. We raced down the dark London streets.  
  
  
  
When I got to Raffi's door I pounded rapidly, and after a moment the door was opened by my dear friend. He was wearing a crimson cape with black pants, a white shirt with red puff balls, a peacock mask and a blue top hat. No shoes. Cologne. Too much cologne, come to think of it, and he'd recently changed the position of his shaving mirror.   
  
"Holmes!" he cried, exuberantly, throwing his arms up. "I'm Captain Fantastic!"  
  
"So I've noticed," I said curtly. "Raffi, where did this come from?" I held out the square of cloth, trying to keep the shaking from my hand.   
  
The smile from Raffi's face faded when he saw how serious I was. He took the cloth and walked inside for better light. Reaching one hand out absently he turned the stereo off, and the room snapped into silence.  
  
"J.C. Penny," he said.   
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Cheap-ish store. This looks American, though, so..."  
  
"The lower east side! Thank you." I turned to leave.  
  
  
(Author's note: Is there a lower east side of London? For now, pretend, and pretend that's where all the dumb Americans live.)  
  
  
"Wait!" Raffi called out, racing for his bathroom. "Do you want a ride?"  
  
"A what?"  
  
With a whirr, Raffi drove into the room, riding in a power-wheels car that was much too small for him. His knees came up to his ears as he grinned. "Beep-beep!" he cried. When I stared in shock he wiggled his eyebrows.  
  
"I'll walk." The door slammed shut behind me. 


	6. Chapter Six

Author's Note: Hello, everyone, I've updated, what a good girl, huh? Don't get your hopes up, this chapter's a quickie. And just a note to Jake, the lone Canadian, yes, I am an american (booohisss!) but at least I'm smart enough to wish I was BRITISH! Lol... And now, back to our regularly scheduled program -   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sit down, Marianne."  
  
"I am not - "  
  
The stranger sitting behind the desk pulled a gun from the drawer and cocked the barrel. I glanced behind me at the two burly men on either side of the door, then back at the gun, then sat in the plushy chair in front of the desk. After the short but terrifying car ride, I had been brought to this... place. I was in some kind of office, very upper class but dark and sinister.  
  
"We're not going to hurt you, Marianne," said the man, his face hidden the shadows. "If you just help us out. This is a copy of your father's will." A hand emerged from the shadows - definitely a man's with neat fingernails and a long, wicked scar running from thumb to wrist. "Unfortunately, he wasn't able to write it himself." From the sound of his voice, the man was smiling. "Be a good girl and finish copying it over, in his handwriting, and no one will get hurt."  
  
"I - I - " I stammered. "I can't."   
  
"You will."  
  
"No - really. I can't-"  
  
"You have five hours or we will find and kill your mother, too."  
  
What I wouldn't have given for a tape recorder just then. One of the burly men grabbed my arm and yanked me too my feet. The other one gathered the fake will, sheets of legal paper, and some ballpoint pens. The paper, pens, and I were all tossed into an adjoining office.  
  
"Umph." I said, then pushed myself upright. The door locked shut behind me.  
  
This office was much bigger and grander. One of the walls was a large picture window that looked out on to a neatly trimmed lawn. The walls were red wood, polished to a shine. Struck by inspiration, I took a better look around. There was probably a hidden camera or something, and this would not look good. I went past the bookshelf on one wall, and found it - the spine of Pride and Prejudice had a very tiny black spot. I began pulling books out at random, and "accidentally" knocked P and P to the floor, then kicked it so the spine was facing the wall.  
  
Praying that was the only hidden camera in here, I took one of the ballpoint pens and retreated to the far corner of the office. Gripping the pen with both hands I dug into the soft woodwork. SW 2002, I carved, small and near the floor. If I ever got out of this alive, I could always identify the room, now.   
  
I began pacing. I certainly couldn't copy the will over - but would they carry out their threats? I knew they wouldn't hurt me; they needed Marianne to rewrite the will, but what about her mother? And where was Holmes? I tried the office door. Still locked. I looked out the window to the ground two stories below. I supposed I could jump it if I needed to, but where would I run afterwards. I went to the window and rapped the glass. It looked breakable, but a crash would bring them running.  
  
I turned my attention towards the desk. It was immaculately neat, with pens and paper lined up straight. The corner of the desk was embossed with the initials J.C.W.  
  
J.C.W.? I thought. I bit my lip.  
  
There was a photograph in a large picture frame sitting on the desk, tilted away from me. I reached out one hand to bring it closer and -   
  
TINK!  
  
My attention snapped back to the picture window. Sometimes, I think, if I had just turned that photograph, if I had just seen the portrait that lay inside it, I wouldn't be here to tell the tale. Months later I would come back to this room, this desk, and I would see that photograph.  
  
But right now I watched, captivated, as another tiny stone plinked against the glass.  
  
I ran to the window, and down below I saw Holmes. I cried with relief.  
  
If Holmes was here, we couldn't be far away from London. I bit my lip and listened - no sounds from the rest of the building. I made a swinging motion at the glass and mouthed "BREAK IT?"  
  
Holmes nodded and shifted backwards.  
  
I looked around the room, frantic, and noticed a stiff wooden chair in the corner. I picked it up and hefted it towards the window. I swung one, two, three and then banged it with all my might against the glass.  
  
Everything shattered and I dropped the chair out the window and instinctively covered my face. Alarms began sounding inside the building.   
  
"JUMP!" I heard Holmes yell, and, blindly, I did, kicking glass shards along with me. Holmes shifted his stance and caught most of my weight, and we fell backwards into the grass, scratched and bleeding. Holmes yelled in pain as we got up, and I stared at him, terrified.   
  
"Run, RUN!" he yelled, and we took to the streets.  
  
  
  
  
After gasping and running and stumbling down the dark London streets, I eased the door to Holmes' house open, and Marianne looked up from a book. Holmes and I staggered into the living room, pale and out of breath. But Holmes' hands were pressed against his stomach and he collapsed to the floor.  
  
"Watson," he gasped, after a minute, "Do you think you can help me with this?" He pulled back his hands, slowly, and both Marianne and I could see they were sticky with blood.  
  
I gasped and practically flew to his side. "Marianne!" I said sharply, "Call 911!"  
  
"What?" Marianne was wringing her hands and white as a ghost.  
  
I kicked myself inwardly. Stupid American. "The ambulance - call an ambulance!" I said, helping Holmes unbutton his shirt. I stripped it off of him, laid him on his back, and pressed the white cotton against his wound. From the broken glass, I noted, my hands shaking.  
  
"Holmes, it's going to be okay, you just pull through this, you hear me?" The shirt was slowly filling with his blood. I increased the pressure, crying desperately. "You can't leave me, I won't let you!"  
  
Holmes opened his eyes, moaning. "Watson - find... find the..."  
  
"Find the what?"  
  
"Foe.... a foe's... toe..." Holmes whispered. Then he groaned again, and he was gone.  
  
"Holmes!" I screamed, crying. "No!" I thought I heard sirens in the background. "Holmes!"  
  
Hands snatched at me. "It's all right miss, it's all right." I was pulled away from him, sobbing. As they took Holmes away, I had the presence of mind to scream for Marianne to call his parents, and mine. Then I was a mess, a quivering mess on the bloody carpet... 


	7. Chapter Seven

I was a mess - blood everywhere. My own, and Holmes'. Marianne helped me stagger down the street to my house. I stumbled inside to the bathroom, and I was embarrassingly sick into the bathtub. Marianne started running water, then got a washcloth and some peroxide from a shelf and cleaned the cuts on my arms and legs.  
  
"Thanks," I breathed, resting my head against the cool marble wall. After a while I got myself under control and took a big drink from the sink, rinsing out my mouth.  
  
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. My head was throbbing - but my blood was on fire. "Marianne," I said, firmly, "We have to figure out who is doing this. Tonight."  
  
We walked into the kitchen, and sat down at the table.  
  
"Okay, what do we know?" Marianne whispered.  
  
I began checking off points on my fingers. "One - that it was two people, someone your father was familiar with. Two - they were most likely in the family. Three - um…" I thought back to the night of the murder. "Next to your father was a jeweled hairpin. It looked expensive, but I noticed that one of the jewels had been crazy-glued back into place, which means these people were once rich, and now they've fallen on hard times. Sound like anyone you know?"  
  
Marianne furrowed her brow. "It does kinda sound like - Sara? What's this?" Marianne got up from the table and walked across the room to a picture hanging on the wall.  
  
I got up and followed her. She was looking at a photograph from when I was in the third grade. My father and mother and I all smiled (me, showing off my brand-new braces) and around us dad's employees grinned and folded their hands on the table.  
  
"Oh," I said, "Those are my father's business partners. There was a way back when I was little. See there's me, on my dad's lap, and that's my mom, and these are…" I thought back for names. "Arthur Josh, Maurine Gold, and Kent Harrison." I pointed them out in turn.  
  
"Sara - " Marianne said, her throat dry. "That's my uncle Arty." She pointed to Arthur Josh. "And that's my aunt Maurine," she slid her finger across to Maurine Gold.  
  
My heart began to pound, and I looked at Arthur Josh's folded hands. There was a long scar that ran from his thumb to his wrist. I gasped. "What-what Holmes said. It was 'photo,' not 'foe's toe.' He knew! He knew somehow!" I took a deep breath.   
  
"I think I know how to stop this," I said, and grabbed the telephone. With shaky fingers I dialed a number I was starting to know very well.   
  
"Yes, hello," I said. "Inspector Peterson, please."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
This HAS to work, I thought desperately, my knees trembling. It was pitch black dark outside, but that was part of the plan. Slowly, then gaining confidence, I began to walk towards Marianne's house.  
  
Just as we had expected, a two people pulled themselves out from the shadows and began to follow me. I broke into a run, then yelled as one of them threw himself at me. We toppled to the ground.   
  
"You little bit-" he snarled.  
  
"NOW!" I screamed.  
  
The dark London street flashed into broad daylight as every single search light Scotland Yard owned exploded on. We were surrounded by a dozen squad cars and three dozen police men, all of whom raised a gun and cocked the barrel.  
  
It was sooooooooooooooooooooo cool. Like something out of a bad spy movie. Before we had set this whole thing up, Raffi had come over and done my make up again. Now, he put a boom box on top of the nearest squad and pressed play. Faint strains of "Mission Impossible" echoed through the night, before an officer reached around and smacked the cd off.   
  
But back to the important things - like the man and the woman standing over me. They were the older versions of the people in the picture - Arthur Josh and Maurine Gold.   
  
"Hello," I said, grinning and pushing myself to a stand. "I'm sure these lovely people here are very interested to meet y - "  
  
Arthur plunged his hand into his jacket and before anyone could move he put a gun to my head. I froze. Uh-oh.   
  
"Nobody move!" he screamed, his voice hysterical. "I want all of these squads out of here by the time I count to - "  
  
Something inside me snapped, and I ducked and hit his arm to the sky. The gun went off once - twice - and while I was still trying to get away he knocked me to my knees, put the gun to my neck and pulled the trigger.  
  
  
  
  
  
He was out of bullets.  
  
  
  
I fainted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Somebody was waving smelling salts under my nose. I sneezed violently, opened my eyes, then slammed them shut against the blaring light. "Here now," Mr. Peterson said, "You're safe now, Ms. Watson." He helped me sit and handed me an open bottle of Poland Springs. I opened my eyes again and with trembling hands I gulped the water down, then surveyed the world from my seat on the cold pavement.  
  
Arthur and Maurine were being driven away in the back of a squad car. Marianne and Raffi were standing over me, looking concerned. Mr. Peterson helped me stand, and I found myself face to face with my look alike.  
  
"I can't believe it was Maurine and Arty, though," Marianne said, sniffling.  
  
"What did you say?" I asked, suddenly alert.  
  
"Maurine and Arty - I just can't believe - "  
  
"Wait," I said. "Maurine and Arty. Why does that sound so familiar? Maurine, Arty…" I shook my head. "Oh well, never mind."  
  
There was a moment of silence, and then Marianne stuck out her hand. I smiled, shook it, and then pulled her into a big hug.  
  
Whizzzzzzzz-click. Raffi pulled the Polaroid out of the front of his camera. Our faces dropped and we pulled apart.  
  
"You didn't," we said in unison.  
  
"I did!" Raffi laughed. "You guys are Picture Perfect."  
  
  
  
  
  
THE END.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sort of. 


	8. Epilogue

EPILOGUE  
  
"Holmes?" I whispered.  
  
He turned his head and opened his eyes. "Watson?"  
  
"Yeah," I smiled. "You okay?"  
  
"Never better."  
  
I chuckled. "I missed you, too, Holmes." I bent down and kissed his forehead. He looked pale in the white hospital sheets, and his voice was thin, but he smiled up at me.  
  
"You solved it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good show." Holmes closed his eyes for a moment. "Doctors say I'll be out of here in a week."  
  
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. "I was so worried about you! Don't you ever do that again!"  
  
"Right. Next time, I'll just get out of the way."  
  
"Well, no, I mean…" I was interrupted by a strange sound coming from the hallway. It sounded like squeaky wheels. The door to Holmes' room opened, and an old upright piano rolled in, followed by Brad, who was pushing it, Marianne, who was pushing Brad and giggling, Raffi, who was dragging an amp, and a new guy. He was tall, with long, blond hair, a shy smile, and an electric guitar.  
  
Raffi panted and then smiled. "Holmes, Sara baby - this is my friend Davey."  
  
Davey, who was plugging into the amp, grinned. "'Ello."  
  
Holmes laughed. "Raffi, what's all this?"  
  
"A get better present. Hit it!"  
  
Davey started out with slow, deliberate chords, and then Raffi joined in on the piano, singing.  
  
"Captain Fantastic, raised and regimented  
Hardly a hero  
Just someone his mother might know  
Very clearly a case for  
Corn flakes and classics  
Two teas both with sugar please  
  
In the back of an alley  
While little Dirt Cowboys  
Turned brown in their saddles  
Sweet chocolate biscuits  
And red rosy apples in summer.  
  
For its hay make  
And Hey Mom - do the papers say   
Anything good?  
Are there chances in life for  
Little dirt cowboys,  
Should I make my way out of my home in the woods?  
  
Brown Dirt Cowboy  
Still green and growing  
City slick Captain   
Fantastic the feedback  
The honey the hive could be holding  
For there's weak winged young sparrows  
That starve in the winter  
Broken young children   
On the wheels of the winners.  
  
And the sixty eight-summer festival wallflowers  
Are thinning…"  
  
  
Raffi began banging his heart out on the piano. Brad laughed and spun Marianne around, and Davey grinned and crashed in with a new set of chords.  
  
  
"For cheap easy meals  
Are hardly a home on the range  
Too hot for the band  
With a desperate desire for change.  
  
We've thrown in the towel, too many times  
Out for the count, when, when we're down.  
Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy -   
From the end of the world to your town!!!!"  
  
BANG! Raffi ended the song, and we all laughed and clapped. Outside, a nurse was frantic. "What is going on in here?" she demanded, flinging the door open. Raffi and Davey, demure as ever, slowly pushed the piano (*squeaky, squeaky, squeaky, squeaky*) out of the room. The nurse followed them with her eyes, flabbergasted.   
  
I laughed. "That Raffi is such a character!" I said, then sighed. "But you know what? He seems really familiar."  
  
Holmes smiled and closed his eyes. "His real name isn't Raffi, you know."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Holmes grinned and turned over. "It's Reginald."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
TA - DA!!!!!!!! My fourth fan fic finished! Hahahahahahahhahhahah I did it! Took me ten months but I did it!   
  
So, to celebrate the end of this story, I am having A CONTEST! The winner gets to pick the name of a new character in my next Sherlock Fan Fic. So, here's the question:  
  
WHO IS RAFFI?  
  
Here are some hints:  
1. Raffi is based on a real person.  
2. That person is still alive today.  
3. That person is very well known.  
4. There are other hints in the story, but not everything is a hint. For example, the fact that Raffi robbed a cd store is not a clue.  
  
  
How to win the contest (you clever person you)  
1. Send me an email at SaraGirl137@aol.com with your guess on who Raffi REALLY is. Only one guess per email or I won't count it. I know, I'm so mean.  
2. In the same email, give me your name for my new character - a fifteen year old girl. Naming this new girl after yourself if perfectly fine.  
  
  
  
  
So put your deerstalker on, boys and girls - and let's see which one of you has what it takes to be a real detective!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
P.S. This contest excludes Ann, Mell, and Allie and any other such people who know me too well. Good luck, everyone 


End file.
